


Dear Boy

by capple



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, Established Relationship, M/M, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-20 01:56:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1492453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capple/pseuds/capple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a mission with the Avengers, Bucky gets attacked and loses his ability to make new memories. Steve, loving boyfriend like he is, angstily adapts to try to make Bucky's two hour long memory capacity the best and calmest it can be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Denial

**Author's Note:**

> memento au to get me back into writing fanfiction. these two will honestly be the death of me i swear to god

Blood, in all its gory glory, had always been the signal that Steve could stop. He could stop hitting, he could stop shooting, he could stop his mission of violence. But the way the blood spilled down Bucky’s forehead, diluting his cloudy blue eyes, dripping into his parted lips, didn’t seem like the end of his mission; it seemed like the start of another. Steve had just watched Bucky fall without being able to do anything for the second time, and the rage was flowing through Steve’s veins, giving him more strength than adrenaline ever could. His fingers tightened around the straps of his shield until his knuckles turned paper white. He worked solely by muscle memory. His arm knew to throw itself back until it hit a body. His arm knew to hit with the sharp edge of the shield into the soft curve of the neck. His body knew to move on when the enemy went limp. He worked like he was in a dream, going through the motions while he attacked the aliens. Limbs threw themselves around, each working of their own volition as if each and every one felt the pain of Bucky’s fall and every cell of Steve’s being wanted, needed, got revenge. He started with the ones that were closest to him, attacking them until the dips in the road were filled with their own mercury blood, just like the puddle that was dyeing Bucky’s hair red.

  
Steve worked his way up to the one who had shoved Bucky from his sniper’s perch. Natasha was fighting the alien, but she was just barely keeping up with the quick figure. Her body moved like Bucky’s; sliding into spaces between movement to keep herself safe while she took down the enemy. Steve grabbed her shoulder and shoved her out of the way before she could defend herself from his attack. He hit the alien with the broad side of his shield, shocking it. He then dropped the shield, gripping the alien’s throat and pushing it down until its head hung over the side of the roof. He threw punches, furiously hoping that he was simulating the kind of pain Bucky was feeling. Soon, the alien’s blood was falling to the ground like rain on a cool April afternoon. The Avengers looked on, fighting their own battles, shocked at the unmerciful rage of the normally peaceful captain. Natasha stood up and brushed herself off, placing her hand on Steve’s shoulder when Steve was only punching a dead shell.

  
“That’s enough, Rogers.” She said softly, rubbing his shoulder in a warm, sisterly gesture. Steve took a deep breath, his violent movements stopping. Leaning back on his heels, he calmly pushed the alien off the roof and watched it fall as he had watched Bucky fall. The alien landed on the ground with a sickening and utterly satisfying _splat_.

  
But Steve was numb. He stood and walked past Natasha, pulled out his earwig and throwing it over the side of the building. He made his way back down, past the dead bodies of the aliens, past his worried comrades.

  
He had only just gotten him back, it seemed like. Steve had dealt with 70 years of thinking he was dead. Steve had dealt with another year not knowing if he would ever find him, and if he did, he could’ve been lost to the Winter Soldier. Steve had dealt with a broken man on his doorstep and the six months following that, dedicated to helping a half-Bucky-half-Soldier mix become sane again. All of that had led up to the past year of heaven. Bucky’s couch became the couch and Steve’s bed became our bed. They walked around Brooklyn with hot dogs and intertwined fingers, Bucky telling Steve the snippets he remembered and Steve giving Bucky the context. Sometimes Steve would leave out small details just to see Bucky’s face when he filled in the details without help. The face he made was one that needed to be kissed, which was good, because both parties wanted that. Together, they took on the 21st century and they’ve survived. Up until this moment.

  
He moved slowly across the ground, stepping on dead aliens in his desperate need to get to Bucky. The screech of the ambulance came closer and closer, but Steve could barely hear it. The image of Bucky, chest barely moving with breath, sprawled out in a pool of his own blood, put Steve underwater. His ears seemed to fill with water, making everything sound garbled and far away. The ambulance had stopped a few meters away because there was too much debris to drive over. Steve noticed this, but only barely. He knew what he had to do. He came up to Bucky, dropping almost immediately to his haunches, scooping him up into his arms. Suddenly, this was the most important thing he had ever done. Standing back up, he carried Bucky’s limp form through the carnage to the flashing lights of safety. Steve pulled Bucky closer, trying to feel Bucky’s heartbeat against his chest. When he didn’t, he broke into a sprint. When he got to the ambulance, the EMTs trying to stay out of the way of a suddenly terrifying super soldier, he set Bucky down gently on the gurney, jumping into the ambulance along with the EMTs. He bumped shoulders and knees with the fast-working EMTs, but all he cared about was keeping his palm warm and obvious against Bucky’s shin while he lay unconscious, EMTs swarming him to check his vitals. Steve tried not to think; if he thought, he would break down. He focused only on Bucky’s body, which was still warm, and the jagged line of a heartbeat that broke through the screen in front of him. He was alive.

  
After that, everything seemed to be moving too fast for Steve to keep up with. They were rushed out of the ambulance when they got to the hospital, and Steve noted that trying to keep up with their fast pace and faster words was much akin to trying to run through water up to your shoulders. Everything kept happening so fast and Steve was stuck, struggling against the current. Bucky was in a room so close to Steve and Steve couldn’t see him. Steve was shouting at attendees, telling them _don’t you dare tell me I’m not family_ because damn it, that was the worst insult they could throw at him.

  
“Mr. Rogers, Mr. Barnes needs to have an MRI right now, but afterwards, you can see him.” The nurse finally gave in, pointing towards plastic chairs by double doors. Steve nodded, sitting down in the chair and waiting. And waiting and waiting, for what seemed like years. When Bucky was finally wheeled out, asleep again, Steve jumped up and refused to leave his side. Worried glances and half-nods followed him as he walked, unhindered into Bucky’s room. He pulled up the chair in the corner to Bucky’s bedside and collapsed in it. Propping his elbows up on his knees, he made himself comfortable. He knew he’d be here a while.

  
Nurses checked his vitals again and again, nervously skirting around the super soldier’s slow-burning rage.

  
“Sir? Um, visiting hours are over-” the young nurse was shushed by another.

  
“I’m not visiting. Get out, he’s sleeping.” Steve snapped, not looking up.

  
“See?” The other nurse hissed, pulling the nurse out the door, which closed gently behind them. Steve was only paying attention to the fact that Bucky’s sleep didn’t seem at all peaceful, Bucky’s brow furrowed and his lips set in a deep frown. Steve wished this was a pain that he could kiss away. A knock shocked Steve out of his stupor.

  
“Mr. Rogers.” The old man looked important, gray hairs tickling his scalp, wrinkles rippling off his eyes and mouth, glasses pushed low on his nose. “Heard you were still here, thought I’d give you the information as soon as I got it.” Steve stood, reaching out his hand. The man took it, introducing himself as Doctor Shelby. “Can I speak with you in the hall?” Steve nodded stiffly, following the doctor outside the room.

  
“He’s going to make it just fine but he sustained some brain damage.” Steve looked through the cracks in the shades of the window, watching the segmented bits of Bucky’s toned body, hidden by the loose hospital garb and the itchy blanket. Steve felt his world cracking apart, the numbness fading. Steve didn’t respond; he couldn’t respond. He tried to shut out the words, not believe them, but the doctor seemed to be used to that; it was like his voice was modified and sharpened as to pierce through the unhearing denial. _Anterograde amnesia_ and _might be permanent_ slid into his skull smoother than one of the Winter Soldier’s knives. He brushed past the doctor and into the room. Grabbing Bucky’s hand, smoothing over the metal ridges with his thumb, Steve kissed Bucky’s forehead. He blinked away tears.

  
“Wake up Buck,” he ordered, but it sounded more like a plea. He pushed Bucky’s long hair from his face. “You gotta wake up. I have to talk to you.” He pulled both of Bucky’s hands up to his lips, kissing each before slapping Bucky’s flesh palm hard. Steve’s heart soared when Bucky groaned and squeezed his eyes tighter, waking up the same way he had this morning. Steve smiled, sitting at the edge of Bucky’s bed, bumping hips and leaning over him.

  
“Damn it Steve,” Bucky cursed, opening his eyes - now bright with life - and looking at Steve. His happy grin spread across his face. “I was having a good dream.” Steve’s smile widened, and he laughed. The doctors were wrong, he thought, Bucky was perfectly fine. Bucky complained about a headache, asking what happened.

  
“You were attacked,” Steve told him. “Threw you off your perch. You landed on your head, you jerk, so nothing of importance was damaged.” Bucky glared at him, rubbing his forehead.

  
“Very funny. I’m guessing I can thank HYDRA’s experiments for my survival.” He groaned again, pushing his head farther down into the fluffy pillow. “How many did you kill because of that?”

  
“All of them.”

  
“That’s my boy.” Bucky’s smile was wide and genuine. Everything was perfectly normal. Banter passed between them easier than oxygen in and out of their lungs. Bucky even asked Steve if he left the oven on again, because he really did not want to have to paint over smoke stains again in the kitchen because _damn it Steve I really liked that color!_ and Steve was laughing. He was reassuring Bucky that yes, he turned the oven off, he made sure it was off, yes, yes he checked it at least three times. Steve fell in love with Bucky all over again, kissing the back of Bucky’s metal hand, now warm from Steve’s hold. His lips lingered, his eyelids closed. When they opened, Bucky looked like he just woke up.

  
His eyes were dull again.

  
“Steve?” Bucky’s eyes shifted around, taking in the room as if he had never seen it before. He groaned, flinching and touching his forehead. Steve’s heart rose to his throat. “Damn, what’d you do to me this time?” Bucky’s voice was carefree, if not slightly pained and annoyed, as per usual. Steve’s throat tightened, blood rushing from his face.

  
“I… you were attacked by the aliens. Thrown from your perch.” Bucky groaned.

  
“I feel like I got hit by a train.” Bucky squeezed his eyes closed, angling his face away from Steve to flinch again. When he got back to himself, he turned and looked at Steve closely, brows contracting in worry. “Did someone run over your puppy?” A smile tugged at Steve’s lips momentarily. “Seriously babe, what’s wrong?” Bucky’s head cocked to the side, reaching up his flesh hand, IVs dripping from his hand and arm, to cup Steve’s face. Calloused fingers touched Steve, rubbing his cheek, as if Steve's skin was Braille and Bucky was bind. Steve sniffed, regaining his mind and shaking his head.

  
“Nothing. Just- long day.” Steve nodded along with his words, trying to make them seem more truthful. Bucky pursed his lips, knowing that Steve was lying. He always knew when Steve was lying, and he always knew when Steve didn’t want to tell him why he was lying. Bucky smiled again, his thumb rubbing back and forth under Steve’s cheekbone.

  
“How many of the outer-space-bastards did you kill?” Bucky asked in an attempt to lighten the mood. Steve swallowed hard, taking Bucky’s metal hand again and lifting it to his lips. He kissed each of Bucky’s knuckles before responding.

  
“All of them.”


	2. Acceptance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve is dealing with Bucky's memory with routine and the l-word, but this disability is hurting both of them. They'll make it through, but how damaged will they be? How damaged are they already?

Falling.

Falling can be a good thing, right? Falling in love. Falling asleep. Falling is usually a bad thing though. Falling in debt. Watching Bucky fall and not being able to do anything. But not always. Falling into debt to keep Bucky safe and comfortable; debts that Stark seems to make disappear. Watching Bucky fall asleep, loving the way that all of his worries seem to leave his muscles as he exhales. Falling in love with Bucky’s small, sincere smiles.

Steve blinked at the pages in front of him. He had been staring at them for God knows how long, waiting for Bucky to stir. He blinked again, clearing his vision and looking over to his bedmate. Bucky was sleeping heavily, only moving in accordance to the relaxing waves of his breathing. Steve closed his book and set it on the bedside table, turning his brain to the quiet muscle-memory system. He sat there, watching Bucky, until Bucky’s metal arm started to whirr again; a sign of his imminent waking. When Bucky moved, body jerking awake in a place it did not remember going to sleep in, mind running in an attempt to solve this strange problem. Steve rested his hand on Bucky’s head to calm the stressful thoughts. He brushed through the coarse mane, calming the tensed muscles with soothing words and answers to tough questions. He followed Bucky into the bathroom, and they brushed their teeth together. Bucky’s eyes followed the planes of their skin in the mirror; observing new scars and new muscles and suddenly pale skin.

“It’s all okay,” Steve soothingly reminded when he saw Bucky’s breathing starting to increase. In the mirror, Bucky’s eyes met Steve’s. Steve watched as Bucky came down from his terror. Bucky grabbed Steve’s hand and led him into the kitchen. Bucky forced banter until it came naturally while Steve was leaning over the pan, making breakfast. He dumped some scrambled eggs onto a plate in front of Bucky and dumped the rest on his own plate.

“Did you make these out of plastic?” Bucky asked, stuffing eggs into his mouth. Steve glared at him, making Bucky smile.

“We should go for our run in a few minutes.” Bucky’s eyes lit up at Steve’s reminder.

“We still go for runs?” He asked, mouth falling open and eyes sparkling. Steve glanced up, aware but not really expecting that response.

“Yeah. Every morning.” He couldn’t help but fill with a warm joy at how happy Bucky was. “Now close your mouth before you lose your breakfast.” Bucky snapped his jaw closed, chewing on the eggs. Steve laughed, eyes crinkling at the edges.

“Let’s go, Captain!” Bucky exclaimed as soon as he had inhaled the rest of his breakfast, jumping up and running back into the bedroom. Steve felt young again suddenly; he felt innocent, like this was their first date all over again and Bucky was about to hold his hand and show him the world - or as much as he could. He had taken Steve to the shore to look at the sparkling skyline of Manhattan. Steve felt that same contentedness coursing through his veins. Eyes wide and unseeing, smile soft and breathing quiet, he leaned back in his chair and replayed the look Bucky had given him just moments before in his mind. Excitement. Happiness. Uninhibited joy.

He stood up and followed Bucky’s trail into the bedroom, seeing Bucky pulling on soft, breathable pants over his underwear. His torso was bare, his bone-white scars faint against his pale skin, even though they were gruesome, jagged, thick, and permanent. Steve knew every single one of them. Steve walked up behind him and touched his hip, making Bucky freeze. He kissed Bucky’s flesh shoulder, mouthing up to his neck. Bucky relaxed against his touch and spun in Steve’s arms, wrapping his strong arms around Steve’s neck and pulling him into a much deeper kiss. Steve’s hands found themselves at the curve of Bucky’s hips; his warmth infected Steve. Steve felt that much colder when Bucky pulled away.

“Let’s save it for after the run.” Bucky said, eyes dark and smirk devious. Sliding out of Steve’s arms, he slapped Steve’s ass and ran into the kitchen, pulling his hair into a ponytail. Steve laughed, shaking his head and pulling on some running clothes. He joined Bucky in the kitchen, touching the small of Bucky’s back lightly. Bucky handed him a glass of water, one that Steve took a swig out of before handing it back to Bucky. He drank the rest and put the glass in the sink, dropping to tie his shoes. Steve did the same, and they were out the door together within moments.

“I bet I can beat you to the bakery,” Bucky stated, shifting his weight on his heels while Steve locked the door behind them.

“In your dreams, maybe!” Steve laughed out as a reply, swinging back around and punching Bucky playfully in the shoulder. Bucky chuckled. The neighbor, Sharon, walked up the stairs and smiled at the two of them.

“Going for a run?” She asked.

“Yeah,” Bucky answered. “I’m gonna whoop this kid’s ass.” She laughed, and Steve mindlessly kissed the spot where he punched. Bucky reached and grabbed Steve’s hand, intertwining their fingers. Steve smiled.

“Have a nice run,” Sharon said, waving at them as she slipped into her apartment.

“Have a nice day,” Steve replied, following Bucky down the stairs and chasing him out.

They ran through the city, through alleys, across rooftops; testing each other and laughing when they weren’t playing a less childish (and more cautious) version of Hide and Seek, in which Steve made sure Bucky was never out of his sight, just in case Bucky’s memory decided to take a lunch break. The game was still fun, even with that inhibition. Laughing and clinging to each other, arguing over who won, they jogged home, ignoring the paparazzi and the children pointing. _It’s Captain America and Bucky Barnes!_ If anything, the announcements made Steve feel better about slinging his arm around Bucky. They waved at the little ones, loving the huge smiles they got from the kids.

They chased each other into their apartment, and when the door shut, Bucky was instantly on Steve. Kissing him deeply, their heart rates increased from the run, Steve remembered the promise from earlier. Grabbing Bucky’s hips almost roughly, he thanked God for his serum-induced strength as he picked up the man and pressed him against the wall. Bucky smirked, chuckling into Steve’s lips.

“I’ll remember this,” he promised. Steve tried not to hear it because he knew it wasn’t true. He shook the sentence from his brain and quickly replaced it with an unbelievably sensual moan from Bucky.

Steve lost himself in the familiarity of the kiss, of the body, of the sounds; in the unspoken l-word that consumed him. He lost himself so fully that he barely noticed when Bucky stopped responding to the kisses and touches. He only noticed when Bucky lashed out with his metal arm, throwing Steve far away from him. Steve stood in shock until he felt blood trickle down his lip. He then saw that Bucky had collapsed and lay, curled into himself, on the floor. Bucky was the priority, so Steve swiped away the blood and did nothing beyond that to help himself.

“Steve?” Bucky asked quietly, peeking his head out from behind his knees. Steve felt a wave of protective guilt wash over him, and he dropped down in front of Bucky and touched his hair. He pulled Bucky’s head into his lap and they started over together.

_You were attacked._ He held Bucky tighter.

_It’s been almost eight months._ Bucky moved, straddling Steve’s hips.

_You’re alright._ They kissed again.

_We can make it through together._ And again, and again.

“Let’s make dinner,” Steve mumbled into Bucky’s neck an hour later, running his hands up and down Bucky’s strong back. Bucky nodded. Steve could feel him smile as he kissed Steve’s temple. Bucky pulled back, reclining against Steve’s propped-up thighs and knees.

“Okay.” Steve looked into Bucky’s eyes and saw all of his emotions, hung out like dirty laundry. He was afraid. He was angry. Steve touched his face and kissed his lips. When they pulled away, all Steve saw was trust. Steve fell for Bucky all over again.

_Yeah_ , Steve thought, _Falling can be a good thing._


	3. Conflict

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve snaps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LISTEN TO THE 8TRACKS MIX I MADE FOR THIS: http://8tracks.com/poechester/dear-boy
> 
> dear boy,   
> your memory of the events have faded.   
> even if you watch the sun set   
> and you forget   
> the moon still rises, doesn't it?
> 
> we've done a lot   
> and you remember none of it   
> but that doesn't render null the memories i've made   
> it only sweetens the pot for you   
> makes the fiftieth time the first
> 
> i'll follow you to hell and   
> back in time for dinner   
> because bucky,   
> i'm with you til the end of the line.

Wake up.

Answer questions in accordance to a predetermined script that Bucky could never figure out. Why use different words, choose them carefully and precisely every time the same exact questions were asked, when the hard work would all be totally lost on a forgetful brain? He tried not to notice when Bucky squinted at him as he was talking, a suspicious look crossing his face for a moment as he spoke in the mindless drone. He tried to not make his words sound like that, too empty, too rehearsed, but it was difficult when he said the same words multiple times every day. _Every day_. Day after day. Every twenty-four hours that passed seemed to make Steve’s shoulders heavier.

Eat breakfast.

Go for a (very cautious) run.

Meet Bucky again and explain the past year to him, not quite feeling the enormity of the issue. As the months went by, he stopped treating every explanation like you would a letter to a past version of yourself and more like he were saying the same word until the word lost its meaning. Steve’s whole world had lost its meaning. Everything had now turned into caring for this new Bucky, stuck on repeat. He couldn’t find it in himself to remember the way they were before. He couldn’t let himself remember the mornings where he woke up to Bucky kissing his jaw. He couldn’t let himself remember the surprise birthday parties. He couldn’t let himself remember the times that Bucky _remembered_.

He shook his head roughly. How dare he? He looked at Bucky from across the kitchen table, watched him chewing slowly and thoughtfully. He wouldn’t trade Bucky for anything, even a past version of Bucky. He stood up and walked over to Bucky, pressing his hand against Bucky’s jaw to lead his face up. He kissed him. Long and lovingly, he apologized for his thoughts with his quiet lips. When he pulled away, Bucky was staring at him, confused.

“Why do you stick around?” Bucky asked bluntly, looking for the answer in Steve’s eyes. Steve’s blood ran cold.

“Because-” The real reason why was something he refused to say. He stayed because… well, he wanted to save the first time he said it to be a time when they could both remember it. Steve stifled a sigh, trying not to think the worst. “Because I’m with you til the end of the line.” Steve forced a smile that didn’t reach his nervous eyes. Bucky nodded without returning the smile. He stood and walked into the living room, making Steve glance at his watch. If the timing was right, Bucky only had a few more minutes. The thought had Steve following Bucky quicker than a mother running after a barely-walking toddler who was wobbling towards the stairs. He found Bucky collapsing in the solitary couch chair in the corner of the room, picking up the book of poems off the coffee table. Long gone were the thick books that once filled Steve’s bookcases to the brim. Compilations of short stories and poems, even childrens’ books, replaced them. All the stories that could be read quickly, in, for example, two hours or less.

Steve sat in the couch opposite the chair, pulling his own book off the coffee table and opening it up to where the bookmark stuck out of the pages. He counted the seconds up to a full minute before turning the page. He was too on edge, with Bucky’s memory lapsing soon, to read anything. And honestly, watching Bucky scratch the same itch on his thigh mindlessly while he read and thought deeply, eyes dark and squinting, about whatever poem he was reading was a whole lot better than anything else. He turned the next page and glanced up at Bucky.

Bucky looked up, his eyes dulling before clearing again. He looked around, confusion and panic spreading across his features.

Steve ran through his script again, setting his book down on the table and reaching for Bucky. Fingertips touched Bucky’s knee, easing up his thigh as soothingly as his words were whispered into Bucky’s ears, forming a blurry picture of the past year. Bucky’s eyes met his; trusting Steve completely. Trusting his words, Bucky nodded and stood when Steve suggested making dinner. As Bucky walked into the kitchen, Steve saw that the book Bucky had been reading was open to a page that had no beginning to the story and no end. A cliffhanger. He sighed and walked on into the kitchen, finding Bucky already pulling tomatoes out of the fridge.

The large knife sparkled in the overhead lighting just as Bucky’s arm was; not only did they look alike, but they were both extensions of Bucky himself. Bucky angled the knife in his hand, cutting, slicing, jabbing, as if the space between hilt and palm were another elbow. The way Bucky absentmindedly played with its weight, holding the hilt lightly between pointer and thumb and letting the edge drop from palm to back of hand. He spun it quickly around his knuckles, almost as if the knife had fallen asleep and Bucky was shaking it to get rid of the pins and needles. Bucky acted the same way around all knives. When he traded the large butcher’s knife for a smaller and duller knife for actual eating, he had the same mindless habits. Twirling it around his index finger, letting it drop into the roll on his plate, where it stood until Bucky picked up the bread with the knife, biting off a piece and smirking.

“When did you become a good cook?” Bucky asked, mouth full. Steve’s lips quirked up into a grin.

“Probably sometime when you were too busy looking at my ass instead of my hands.” Bucky smiled, tense muscles loosening. He melted into the chair, brushing his calloused fingers lightly against the ceramic mug he held. The small smile made its home on Bucky’s face, brightening his eyes and causing kind wrinkles to etch themselves at the corners of his lips and eyes.

“I remember,” Bucky started before pausing. The words made his lips curve up. He licked and bit them in an attempt to stop smiling so much before going on. He lifted his index finger, looking closely at the pattern in the wooden table. “I remember that your ass was a nice view when you looked like a prepubescent boy, and it’s still a nice view now.”

Steve couldn’t respond. He watched Bucky and fell in love. The kind of love that make you smile like an idiot and giggle like a schoolgirl. The kind of love that makes its home in your stomach and flares up like a swarm of fluffy puppies whenever you thought of them. The kind of love that makes you want to shout it from the rooftops. The kind of love you want remembered. The smile quickly faded from Steve’s face. He stood up abruptly, picking up his dishes and putting them in the sink’s soapy water. He started to wash them, clinking them together without a care and spinning the sponge around the corners of the plate quickly and carelessly.

“You okay, punk?” Bucky asked. Steve could hear him stand, the chair skidding across the floor loudly, dishes smacking into each other as he carried them to the sink. Steve nodded quickly and Bucky started to do his nightly routine; the one that set Steve’s teeth on edge and made the frustration build at the corners of his vision. Bucky started by dropping his plate and bowl in the water, splashing Steve. Bucky then started to back away from the sink, throwing the cutlery he had used into the water with a precision that could not be matched by assassin or professional knife-thrower.

Steve got angrier and angrier as each piece of cutlery cut into the water. He had made the mistake of living with the habit and not bringing it up while Bucky could remember a scolding, leaving him to have to live with it for the rest of his life. By the time the butcher’s knife had whizzed past his ear, Steve had had enough. He snapped, dropping the plate he had been washing back into the water and turning on his heel.

“Stop doing that, goddamnit!” He boomed, each muscle flexing, angry adrenaline soaring through him. “I tell you every goddamn night to stop doing that and you never stop!” He clamped a sweating hand around the edge of the sink, closing his eyes and gathering the scattered parts of his brain. A year of being the best he could be for Bucky had him stretched thin; it was only a matter of time before he cracked. At least he hadn’t violently snapped or worse; left.

“I’m sorry,” a small voice stuttered out. Steve looked up. Suddenly there was nothing worse he could’ve done to the man he loved. Guilt consumed him as soon as he saw Bucky’s head hanging low, his shoulders hunched and his fists clenched. Steve walked two long strides and enveloped him in a tight hug. He kissed everywhere his lips could reach and apologized with every breath.

He left the sink full of dishes and lead Bucky back into their bedroom by the hand. He pulled Bucky onto the bed and kissed him deeply, falling back on the bed with Bucky pressed against his chest like a child’s teddy bear.

The next day, Steve tried to forget his actions of the night before by throwing himself completely into his mind, moving around Bucky with a magnified, assumed fragility. When Bucky didn’t ask his usual questions, Steve assumed that it was just a glitch in the matrix. A moment of clarity, or a moment of cloudiness. All Steve could do was wrap his arm around Bucky’s waist and kiss him at the base of his neck, hoping somehow Bucky would get better.

It was in the moments of solitary silence; in the bathroom, washing his hands, that he would remind himself that Bucky would be gone in a matter of hours, or minutes, or even seconds, and whatever clarity or difference would be gone. _Do not build up false hope._ That was the first thing psychiatrists told him; do not build up false hope ever. It only causes more and more tension.

Steve kept the psychiatrist’s firm, wrinkled face, gray tendrils of hair sliding out of her bun, in his head while he did the dishes after dinner that night. _Don’t expect anything. Do not hope. Live in the moment you are currently in, because that’s the only moment available to the both of you._

He felt like a failure. All he could remember was shouting at Bucky and the look that Bucky sent him back. He slowly turned the sponge on the plate, glad that Bucky forgot. His hold tightened on the plate and he had to remind himself that he was a super soldier and could easily break the thing. He nearly jumped out of his thoughts when he felt Bucky’s hand on his elbow, and the plate he had eaten off of had the bowl and cutlery balanced on top of it and was being edged towards the water gently. Steve took it, confused.

“Why- why didn’t you throw it in the water?” He asked, fingers of hope poking at his brain. Bucky looked back at him, eyebrows closing in towards each other, forming wrinkles on his forehead.

“Because you told me not to last night.” He answered simply. Steve’s mouth fell open. The plate dropped and shattered on the floor. Crackling silence broke between them where neither knew what to do. Steve acted first, pulling Bucky into his chest, hugging him. Bucky remembered.

Steve pulled away just long enough to kiss Bucky as deeply as he possibly could.

“I love you,” he whispered into Bucky’s lips. His remembering lips. “I love you.” Bucky chuckled.

“I love you too.” Bucky chuckled, pulling away and tucking his fingers into Steve’s hair. Bucky watched as Steve’s face brightened exponentially; lips parting, eyes unfocused and obviously planning to do things they could not do before. Steve was so focused on being happy about this miracle that he didn’t notice Bucky’s eyes dulling before clearing again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! This is not that fantastic, I just needed to write this to clear out the writing pipline, you feel me? leave kudos and comments if you liked it!! (I barely edited this I just needed to get this out of my system I apologizeee)

**Author's Note:**

> like if you liked it and comment if you want more and picket outside my house if you want to scare me into writing more


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